


Period of Adjustment

by waltwhitmans



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M, indulgent liberal fantasy, otp: wait that's my word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20831225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltwhitmans/pseuds/waltwhitmans
Summary: Between the engagement and the wedding was the decision making, the incredibly important two months and eighteen days before Pete would take the oath.A transitional period, in all senses of the word.





	Period of Adjustment

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I still don't know exactly how a presidential transition of power works.

In a way it was like getting engaged. 

Pete had gotten down on one knee and given Chasten a ring, and Chasten cried and said yes. That was the part he told people about. Nobody cared about what came immediately after that: walking from B5 to the gate where their flight was actually boarding, sitting by the ticket agent's desk, holding hands and grinning at each other. Then they got on the plane, and six months later they got married. 

After twenty months of campaigning, Pete was elected president. As soon as the polls closed on the West Coast it was clear that the American people had chosen a thirty-eight year old gay Midwestern mayor. "You did it," Chasten said, tears in his eyes. 

"We did it," Pete said. 

That was the engagement: winning the election, making the victory speech. Between the engagement and the wedding was the decision making, the incredibly important two months and eighteen days before Pete would take the oath. Nobody on the outside cared about those two months but it wasn't out of line to say that, in some ways, decisions made then were a life or death issue. There were the cabinet picks, the Joint Chiefs, staff to hire for the White House, climate change and the economy and healthcare and convincing the rest of the world that America had held on by the skin of her teeth. But none of that was on TV. The moment that he stepped out of the Capitol onto the dais, in front of the crowd on the Mall, would be the wedding of the new president to his country. _Out of history into history_, as Robert Penn Warren had written. 

\-- 

An incomplete list of things Chasten would not be doing for the next four to eight years: 

Driving a car. 

Carrying a wallet. 

Working for pay. 

Reading replies on Twitter. 

Grocery shopping. 

Making his own appointments. 

Speaking to his brothers. 

Taking the dogs to the vet. 

Living away from scrutiny. 

He still thought it was a fair trade. Pete was the president-elect; he had beaten Trump by almost a hundred electoral votes and already had an approval rating of 83%. A second blue wave had brought a majority in the Senate. It felt like everyone had breathed a sigh of relief in unison on Election Night. The Studebaker factory was packed with supporters, and they all went insane when Pete stepped onto the stage, with deafening cheers and shouts. The Empire State Building lit up in brilliant blue. All over the world people felt like things were going to be okay, because America had elected a new president, a brilliant young patriot who never turned from duty and who was guided in all things by love and trust. 

Pete was officially certified to be the winner by the General Services Administration the morning after. Chasten had crashed on the couch as soon as they got home from the Studebaker factory. He woke up a few minutes after six to Buddy grumbling and Truman whining. He shuffled to the back door and let them into the yard, and sat down on the stone steps to watch them roll in the frosty grass. It wasn't quite sunrise yet. The sky was pale violet and a few stars were still out. He realized that Pete must have taken his shoes off, because the last thing he remembered was collapsing onto the couch. His tie was gone, too. 

The back door opened and closed. A mug of coffee moved into Chasten's view. "Morning," Pete said, sitting down. 

"How long have you been up?"

"A few minutes." 

Pete had gotten as far as pajamas before he fell asleep in bed, and he had the presence of mind to put a robe on. His hair was sticking up in the front; the squint made it obvious that he hadn't put his contacts in. No matter what he would never be a morning person. Chasten sipped his coffee. "You should have woken me."

"You looked comfortable." 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. A few cars drove by and each one leaned on the horn - to congratulate them, Chasten hoped. If there was any trouble, there were Secret Service agents out front. Truman, completely spent, lay flat under a tree. Buddy continued to roll in the grass, snorting like a piglet. "I hope he didn't find a dead bird or anything," Pete said.

"Probably won't have a lot of time today to bathe him."

"Probably not." 

"Has your phone rung yet?"

"I left it upstairs. I'm going to be president, I think I've earned a few minutes of quiet with my husband." 

There was so much to do. The GSA would release the money needed to fund the transition. They had to start getting ready to leave South Bend. Their phones were probably blowing up with congratulatory calls and texts. Mike and Lis would be over soon to strategize. The sun was rising over a country that had pulled itself back from the brink. Chasten rested his head on Pete's shoulder. Another horn honked. 

Buddy finished his roll in the grass, trundled over to his people, and plopped down in front of them. Truman joined him, motivated by the prospect of scratches. The door opened. "Sir," Agent Holmes said. The Secret Service had been calling them both "sir" for months but it felt different now. "Sorry to interrupt. There's something we think you should see." 

In the living room, Agent Bradford and Agent Nichols were standing in front of the television. Jake Tapper was on the screen, looking confused. "Before leaving the White House this morning, President Trump said that he had no plans to contact President-elect Buttigieg, and added that he would not welcome any attempt by Buttigieg or his team to contact him or White House staff."

Cut to Trump, standing in front of Marine One, shouting over the roar of the blades. "I'm not going to call him. Why should I talk to him? I don't have anything to say. Little Pete beat me. You think that's right? Little Mayor Pete. I call him Little Peter. I'd love to see him negotiate a trade deal. Wouldn't you?" 

Back to Jake. "That was President Trump a little while ago, leaving the White House for Mar-a-Lago, with no plans to return. It seems that the president has decided to retreat and lick his wounds, leaving Vice President Pence to keep the lights on and the President-elect to get on with the hard work. Coming up, an interview with John Podesta, former White House Chief of Staff to President Clinton and advisor to the president-elect."

"So," Chasten said. "Easy first day."

"The President has abdicated his duties, such as they were," Pete said. "The Vice President's hands are tied. So I'm starting the job two and a half months before I actually start the job. I guess I should get in the shower."

"I'll put on another pot of coffee," Chasten said. 

The doorbell rang, and the door burst open. Lis was swearing a blue streak into her phone. "You've heard," Mike said. 

"Oh, we've heard," Agent Bradford said. 

"Mother_fucker,_" Lis said. To everyone gathered, she said, "I'll just be a minute." 

Chasten looked at his watch. It was eighteen minutes after six in the morning, and his husband was both the president-elect and, for all intents and purposes, the acting President. He had to change into fresh clothes. 

\--

The theme for the inauguration was quickly decided: Kennedy. It was the sixtieth anniversary of his inauguration. Lis came up with a whirlwind of ideas in the first week after the election: a trip to Boston to the Kennedy Presidential Library, visiting Kennedy's grave at Arlington, getting a poet for the inauguration, asking Caroline Kennedy for the Bible her father swore on. "Call it A New Generation of Leadership," she said. "Play up the Kennedy connections."

They were at headquarters in South Bend, which was being disassembled. Staffers were either heading to the official Transition office in Washington or leaving South Bend for new jobs. Key staffers - Mike, Nina, Emily, Chris - were flying back and forth once or twice a week. Lis was staying in South Bend to run the pre-transition. "What did Kennedy stand for? Renewal. Forward thinking. Leading the way. 'We are not here to curse the darkness but to light a candle,' and so on. Play it up."

"I've got you quoting Kennedy," Pete said. "That's almost as good as getting elected." 

"Bite me. All those old people who voted for you because you reminded them of him, think of them." Her phone rang. "Hang on."

While Lis had a brief but blistering phone call, Pete looked around the office. Two weeks earlier the place was full of people, from staffers working on policy to volunteers from St. Joseph High making phone calls and arranging for transportation on Election Day. There was always someone there, hard at work or asleep in the break room. Now, except for a few stragglers getting ready to go, it was empty. Desks were cleared to be dismantled, walls were bare for repainting. It felt like the party was over. 

"Schmuck!" Lis hung up the phone. "He'll call back."

"The offer is still available," Pete said. "Press Secretary. You'd be great."

"I'm already great," Lis said. "I got you elected. But I'm not made to be White House Press Secretary. Your presidency is going to be about decency and respect. That all goes down the toilet if I call somebody a fuckwit during a briefing." 

Pete had to agree with her reasoning. His White House was going to be held to nearly impossible standards, and a Press Secretary who insulted reporters - another one - wouldn't stand. 

"Give it to Chris," Lis said. "Nina and Emily are going to the East Wing with Chasten. Chris is your Press Secretary, Mike is your Chief of Staff, Sonal is your key Advisor, Saralena is your body woman. I'll stay on through the Transition and I'll go to the Inauguration but after that I'm moving on." 

"What's next for you?"

"I don't know. I did just elect a fucking president. Maybe I'll go back to New York, sleep for a few years. Remind the cats that they have one owner and not a revolving door of sitters."

"What were you just insulting someone for?"

Lis waved her hand dismissively. "Apparently Trump is telling people that he thinks you made a deal with the Chinese to win the election. He's not going to do anything about it, of course, he just wants to get on Fox and Friends to complain. Poor baby. Guy from Axios wanted a quote, I called him a schmuck, he'll try again." 

"If you ever want a job," Pete said, "you just have to ask."

"I know," Lis answered. 

Pete heard more about it when he got home that evening. "Trump thinks you, specifically, are out to get him," Chasten said, as they packed up the books they were going to ship to Washington. "But he's just blowing hot air. Scuttlebutt on Twitter says that Jared and Ivanka are begging him to shut up and go quietly because Letitia James is going to bring the gavel down on him after you're inaugurated." 

"We don't listen to scuttlebutt, we listen to facts." 

"She's the one who's going to ruin his life, not you. You'll be focused on fixing the country while he gets pummeled with state-level charges and spends the rest of his life in a jumpsuit the same color as his spray tan." 

"Imaginative." 

"Just think of all the real estate you're taking up inside his head."

Pete, Chasten, and Pete's mother spent Thanksgiving with Chasten's family in Michigan. It was rural enough that they could fly more under the radar, and the extended Glezman family treated Pete the same way as they had long before he ran for President. The only big differences were the agents that came with them, one of whom joined Pete with his father-in-law and a few others in the deer blind - Agent Prescott declined to shoot but she was eagle-eyed spotting them - and the questions coming from the nieces, nephews, and little cousins. "Are you gonna work in the Oval Office?" asked a wide-eyed seven-year-old. 

"Yeah, I'm going to work there a lot."

"Will you bring your dogs?"

"We'll bring Truman and Buddy. They'll be the First Dogs of the United States."

One of the kids said he was going to tell everyone at school that his uncle was the president. "President-elect," Chasten said. "He won't be the president until January. Ask your teacher if they'll show you the inauguration." 

Back in South Bend after the holiday, Pete went back to headquarters. It was even emptier than it had been before Thanksgiving. He agreed to go to Boston, the visit to Arlington, the poet, getting in touch with Caroline Kennedy. He had one request. "The presidential portrait of Kennedy," he asked one of the new staffers, a self-described White House nerd. "Where does that hang?" 

"The Green Room," they said. "It was President Kennedy's favorite of the State Room parlors."

"I want that in my office. The Oval Office. On the left of the desk so I can see it." 

In early December a rumor floated from the White House that the vice president wanted to meet with the president-elect, in lieu of the usual meeting with the president. As the sitting president was sulking in Florida, the duty fell to Pence. "It could be a sign of wanting unity," Chris said. "Or he could try and butter you up for pardons."

"Where is this coming from?" Lis asked. "Are the patients running the asylum?"

"Supposed to be from the Office of Personnel, non-partisan. They indicated that it would be easier on Pence if you reached out first. Your call." 

Pete tried to imagine himself in the house at the Naval Observatory, or in the White House, having a serious meeting with Mike Pence about...what, exactly? The duties of the office, most recently held by a traitor? The power of the executive office, of which Pete had more experience, and they both knew it? To reminisce about the Fighting Irish and Paczki Day? Was Chasten supposed to sit down for tea with Karen and smile without showing the blood in his mouth? If Mike Pence had his way then people like him wouldn't run for President, wouldn't get married, wouldn't exist. 

"If they extend the invitation," Pete said, "then we'll go. We won't ask if we can come."

"You run the risk of looking like bad winners if you don't meet with Pence," one of the new people said. 

"I don't give a good goddamn what Mike Pence wants or thinks," Pete replied. "He's not the President. The President is in Florida having a temper tantrum. Children are being held in detention centers for daring to cross the border. Citizens are living in deplorable conditions. I don't care what Pence says because his career is over. If he asks, we'll go. I'm not about to request an audience with a man who thinks I'm damned because I'm gay." 

The matter was settled. The vice president did not reach out, and the Office of Personnel had nothing new to report. The work of the transition was ramping up. 

\--

What with them moving to Washington permanently on December 27th there was no point in decorating for Christmas. They were too busy packing up the house, shipping the things that had to be shipped, canceling the mail, and a thousand other things you had to do when you were elected president. Chasten knew it made sense, and a tree would just be another thing to get rid of. But it was Christmas. "We'll make up for it next year," Pete said. "You'll have the whole White House to decorate."

"I'll wrap garlands around the columns on the front. Rent reindeer for the Entrance Hall. Carolers outside the Oval Office." 

The work continued. Pete had meetings every day at headquarters, with advisors and staff. He was taking phone calls with world leaders, potential cabinet nominees, and Democratic party leadership. For the week before Christmas he was gone early and back late. If Chasten got to spend a waking hour with his husband it was a good day. This was, of course, a preview of their lives to come. There were going to be times when Pete was gone all night or for days at a time. 

On December 24th, Chasten was busy getting paperwork together: birth certificates, passports, their marriage license, the dogs' vaccination records. He was so absorbed in it that he didn't realize that Pete hadn't come home. He looked at his watch: almost nine o'clock. He checked his phone: no calls or texts. He put his shoes on and grabbed his keys. This was too much. 

There was one light still on at headquarters, in an upstairs window. Chasten let himself in, said hi to the Secret Service agents in the lobby, and took the stairs up to the conference room. Sure enough, there was Pete, deep in conversation with half a dozen people: Mike, Lis, Chris, a few new people Chasten hadn't met yet. "Evening," he said. "I'm here to remind you that you all have families and tomorrow is Christmas."

"We were just finishing up," Pete said. 

"Were you?"

"It's my fault," Mike said. "We got in the weeds on this intelligence brief from DNI."

"Cool, but you're not married to me, so I can't lecture you." Chasten turned back to Pete. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Um." Pete pursed his lips. "I had some beef jerky a little while ago."

"Okay, that's all I needed to hear. Come on." 

Dutifully, Pete got his papers together, put his coat on, wished everyone a merry Christmas, and followed Chasten back to the car. As they pulled out of the parking lot into the road, Chasten ignored the black SUV right behind them and told Pete his plan. "Okay, here's how you're going to spend the night. We're going to go home. You'll have dinner - actual food, which I will cook. You'll take a shower. You'll get into pajamas. I'll blow you until you forget your name. Then you will go to sleep until tomorrow morning. Got it?" 

Pete was looking at him with a mixture of love and quiet awe. "Sometimes I forget how you get when you're feeling protective."

"You might be the next president but you're not Superman."

"You know you're never going to be able to do that again, right?" 

"I know. It's not like I can walk into the Situation Room at midnight and tell the Joint Chiefs to go home. Let me enjoy this while I can." 

It was too late for anything involved, and there wasn't a whole lot in the fridge, so Chasten made an executive decision: breakfast for dinner. It counted as real food because he had to turn on the stove. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with a generous smear of the good butter. Pete tried to help but Chasten waved him away with the spatula. "Sit down."

"I've been sitting all day."

"Yeah? Then you can sit a little more. It'll be done in a minute." 

Realizing that he would not be allowed to help, Pete sat down at the island and watched. "I do appreciate this," he said. "You didn't have to come get me."

"Yes, I did."

"I'm perfectly capable of frying an egg."

"Merry Christmas. Here, it's finished." 

"Are you eating?"

"No, I ate hours ago, like a normal person." Chasten set the plate in front of Pete, handed him a fork. "Eat first."

Because he was a nice person, Chasten sat down with Pete as he inhaled his late dinner. After he sent Pete upstairs to shower he washed the plate and the fork before going back to the paperwork. He was finishing up, putting it all in the fireproof box to go with them to Washington, when Pete appeared in the office doorway, in a t-shirt and boxers, hair still damp. "So what's left to pack?"

"Just the essentials. We can hold off on those until the day after tomorrow. Once we're in Washington we can send for anything we don't bring with us." 

"Did you remember to get the tranquilizers for Truman?"

"The bottle is next to the food bin. Three drops in the morning." 

"I seem to recall that after I showered there was something else you had planned." 

"Yeah, you're going to go to bed and sleep for eight hours."

"Are you really going to make me ask?" 

"No. Come on." 

In bed, Pete lay on his back, eyes closed. Chasten settled between his legs. He tried not to think about the agents outside, the TV news anchors and analysts, the pressure that had been on both of them for nearly two years and how much it would increase after 12:01 on January 20th. He focused on what was tangible, right in front of him: the scent of soap and clean clothes, the warmth of Pete's skin, the noise that came from the back of his throat and his hands in Chasten's hair, pulling gently. Chasten could feel Pete untense, muscles relaxing, hands unclenching. He came with a gasp, then a sigh. 

When Chasten came back from rinsing his mouth out, Pete had rolled onto his side, boneless with pleasure. "Come back," he said. "I want to return the favor."

"Not tonight."

"No, really."

"Seriously. I've been working just as hard as you to get us ready to move, I'm tired. We can pick this up tomorrow after we get back from your mom's house." Chasten began to undress. "Now, sleep. For both of us."

"I think I like this dominant side of your personality."

"Someone has to keep this show running."

Chasten called Agent Bradford to let him know that they were turning in for the night. Pete fell asleep quickly but Chasten forced himself to stay awake as long as he could. This house had been their home for five years, and they wouldn't live there again for years. This bed was their marriage bed. In three days they were leaving it behind because Chasten was married to the next President of the United States. He would miss it. 

\--

Traditionally, the president-elect and their family didn't move into Blair House until five days before the inauguration, but there was nothing traditional about Pete or his family or the office he would be taking over. They would be there until the 17th, when they left for Boston to visit the Kennedy Presidential Library, and then come back for the night of Pete's birthday, the night before the inauguration. 

The transition office was on K Street. Staff began referring to it as just "Transition." Every morning a car came for Pete to drive him there, and every evening he was driven back to Blair House. Every day there was something different: a press conference to announce a cabinet nominee or a policy; a call with a foreign dignitary, a world leader, or a senator; interviews with the New York Times, the Washington Post, Politico; decisions to be made about the inauguration, including writing the Inaugural Address, and the balls that followed. Chasten had a few ideas. "Our first dance will be 'Countdown' by Beyonce," he said, on one of the days he went with Pete, to a conference room full of people. "I even choreographed a routine for it."

They stared at him. "I'm kidding," he said. "Just get me on the phone with the Committee for Inaugural Ceremonies. We'll figure it out." 

The transition was going as smoothly as could be hoped. Every cabinet nominee Pete asked said yes, and there was no reason to believe that any one of them - intelligent, competent, compassionate people - wouldn't be confirmed by a Democratic Senate. Prime ministers and presidents all over the world were relieved to see Trump gone. The policies were rock solid and Pete was optimistic about getting Medicare for All Who Want It accomplished in his first term, establishing the Community Corps, and implementing the Douglass Plan. Politically, he had the world on a string. Personally, he was already exhausted. He knew it was only going to get busier, and he knew he had willingly signed up for it, but that didn't make it any easier. Days were long and sometimes Chasten was already asleep when he got back to the house. 

On the 10th, Pete had an idea. It was a Saturday and he left Transition early, at five-thirty. He called Chasten from the car. "Date night," he said. "Just you and me. No phones, no news, nothing."

"God, I love you." 

Because the logistics of going out to eat were too complex, they stayed in. Pete told the agents that they were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency. Chasten had the idea to make a pizza together, and they ended up covered in flour and the crust was a little burned but Pete swore that it was the best pizza he'd ever had. Truman and Buddy sat in the doorway, wagging their tails and looking hopeful. Pete tore his crust in half and shared. "It's a reward for not chewing on the furniture." 

"Maybe they recognize their own dignity for the first time. The gravity of becoming the First Dogs of the United States." 

They watched _ A Matter of Life and Death _ on Prime, a movie Chasten had never seen before; Pete had seen it when he was at Oxford, fifteen years earlier. By the end of the movie Pete was lying down with his head in Chasten's lap and one hand at his mouth. The pilot convinced the heavenly jury that falling in love was cause to keep him alive, and he woke up in the hospital with his girlfriend standing over him. 

In the bedroom, getting undressed, Chasten said he thought he was gaining back some of the weight he'd lost on the campaign trail. "You look good," Pete said. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Pete said. 

How long had it been since the last time? Pete couldn't remember at that moment. Since before they left South Bend, easily. The night Chasten brought him home, and then the night after Pete was able to return the favor. There just hadn't been time, enough time away from the work. There had been a few times where they had both woken up at four in the morning and reached for each other, but it didn't count if you couldn't clearly remember it. At that moment, both of them half undressed, time seemed to slow down. They were the only two people in the world. A second later Chasten was on his back and Pete was on top of him. "I've missed you," Chasten said. 

"But I - " Pete stopped himself. He was about to say _ I've been here _ but he hadn't. He had barely seen any of the huge, historic Blair House because he was only there to shower and sleep. Chasten was giving interviews and working on his platform with his staff, and all Pete knew about it was what he saw on Twitter. They were leaving for Boston in a week and he hadn't even begun to think about packing or writing remarks. "We have all night," he said. "I'm here." 

"I know what I signed up for," Chasten said. "I've known for years. I'll get over it. You're going to be the president."

"And you're going to be the First Gentleman." 

"Let's just get a few things straight. Date Night is sacrosanct. Unless we're in different countries then we're doing something together, by ourselves, on Wednesdays."

"Agreed."

"Your mom is moving in with us and we'll have children in a couple years and we're going to be the happiest, most wonderful First Family in American history."

"Absolutely." 

"I love you and I'm proud of you and I believe in you."

"That's why I'm here."

"When we have our first dance at the inaugural ball it's going to be a landmark moment for little gay kids across America." 

"I know." 

"Kiss me," Chasten said, and Pete obliged.

In the small hours of the next morning, Pete was getting dressed as quietly as he could, knotting his tie in the weak pre-dawn light. The car was idling outside, Agent Santos and Agent Nichols were downstairs. The bed creaked. "Peter," Chasten said. 

"Did I wake you?"

"No. Call me when you're coming back."

"I will." 

Pete put his jacket on. His coat was downstairs, the daily briefing book would be in the car, and there would be coffee and breakfast at the office. He knelt down next to the bed and kissed his husband. He wouldn't be anywhere at all without him. "I'll see you tonight."

"I'll be here," Chasten said, already falling asleep again. 

In the car, Pete skimmed the briefing book and looked at his schedule. Press conference at ten to announce the nominee for National Security Advisor; lunch meeting with his speechwriters to make edits for the inaugural address; phone call with Prime Minister Corbyn and the Premiers of Scotland and Wales at two. If all went according to plan, he would be back at Blair House before Chasten went to bed. 

\--

The sun glinted into Chasten's eyes. It was a beautiful day: clear skies, temperatures in the high thirties. He was sitting stage right from the podium where, in less than an hour, he would be holding John F. Kennedy's Bible open as Pete took the Oath of Office. He blinked. At St. John's that morning, listening to Reverend Fisher preach on the redeeming power of love and the eternal possibility of grace, Chasten watched Pete, in prayer, out of the corner of his eye. He wondered what Pete was asking God to grant him. Wisdom, probably, and strength. Chasten knew what he wanted. _ Dear God, keep him safe, that's all I ask. _

Behind him, people were introduced, accompanied by secretaries and officials. The former vice presidents, second ladies, presidents and first ladies had been seated first, then Pete's mother and the vice president-elect's family, then Chasten. The Pences were announced, took their seats to the most polite applause Chasten had ever heard. Trump was already back in New York. He wouldn't be missed. 

The day before, at Transition, they'd thrown a little birthday party for Pete. A staffer who had never been on television was sent to a bakery to pick up a cake that said, simply, Happy Birthday Peter. It could have been for anyone. At the office, Chasten stuck forty candles into the white frosting, thirty-nine and one to grow on. He led the singing of the birthday song, conducting with the knife he used to cut the cake. "Well, the thing I wished for last year came true," Pete said. 

"Think of something quick," Lis said. "The candles are melting."

With both Chasten and his mother helping, Pete blew out all the candles and the cake was unharmed. Later, in the car going back to Blair House, Chasten asked Pete how he expected he was going to get to sleep that night. "Same as I did before every primary and before the election," Pete said. "Knowing that no matter what happens tomorrow, I'll be fine."

"You were a little nervous when we were in Boston. I saw you pacing before you made your speech."

"Maybe a little." 

The trip to Boston went off without a hitch. Lis was in rare form, schmoozing with the publicists and the reporters and the Kennedys. Pete hadn't been back since he won the essay contest. A picture of him as an awkward kid with Caroline Kennedy was on the wall of the reception room. 

Caroline personally handed Chasten the Bible. It hadn't been used since her father's inauguration, hadn't been seen in public in sixty years. The photographers got pictures of the moment. "The torch my father carried has been passed," she said. "The new generation has given us a bright, forward-thinking leader, who will light the way and lead America to new opportunities and new heights. In that spirit, I present the Bible my father was sworn in on to the very first First Gentleman, for him to hold as his husband takes the Oath of Office."

Chasten made a few remarks, thanked Caroline and her family for their support - the endorsements from her, Kathleen, and Rory were invaluable - and for lending them something so precious. Pete made a short speech, about the inspiration he got from the Kennedys and the path he wanted to blaze. "Sixty years ago, President Kennedy told the American people that they should not ask what their country could do for them, but what they could do for their country. When I am sworn in on Wednesday, I will be proud to continue the tradition of service and patriotism for which he stood." 

Presently Chasten looked away from the sky and into the crowd. He'd heard an estimate from the Park Service that there were a million people expected on the Mall and at the monuments, and just from a glance at the audience before him it wasn't hard to believe. He kept thinking about holding Pete's hand, in the car going back to Blair House and walking upstairs to the bedroom, singing "Happy birthday, Mister President-Elect," getting Pete to laugh. 

The vice president-elect was introduced, and she gave Chasten a big smile as she sat down. The House and Senate leadership came in. Chasten was on the edge of his seat. "Ladies and gentlemen," the deep-voiced announcer proclaimed, "the President-elect of the United States, Peter Buttigieg!" 

The crowd disappeared in a sea of waving flags and signs. Even on the dais the sound was unbelievable. Everyone stood up as Pete emerged from inside the Capitol. Chasten watched him shake hands with the members of the leadership and the former presidents, hug his mother, say a few words to the vice president-elect, before making his way to his seat. "I love you," Chasten said. 

"I couldn't have done it without you, love," Pete said. 

Senator Baldwin served as the Master of Ceremonies and introduced every segment. Bishop Gene Robinson gave the invocation, beseeched God to bless and protect Pete and his family, and to grant him the grace and wisdom he would need. Shea Diamond sang "America the Beautiful." The vice-president was sworn in. It was time. Chasten opened the Bible to the page he bookmarked and stood with Pete on his right and Chief Justice Roberts on his left, the podium between them. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. "Are you prepared to take the oath, Mayor Buttigieg?"

"I am." 

Pete lay his left hand on the Bible, open to Isaiah 6:8, his fingertips over the words _ here am I, Lord, send me_. He raised his right hand. If anyone asked Chasten could say it was the cold that brought a tear to his eye. He wouldn't, though.

**Author's Note:**

> My only qualm with how Lis is portrayed in other fics is that none of you are taking advantage of the wide and wonderful litany of Yiddish insults that any New Yorker would know.


End file.
